


Do We Not Die

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Tapas [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Hate Sex, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Surprise Ending, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Bedelia has made a career of benefiting from having her back against the wall, and she has no intention of stopping now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, boy. I've been looking forward to writing this since [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/) first made the announcement for [#EatTheRare](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HanniCreative_EatTheRare). Hate sex, y'all. Hate sex.
> 
> Thanks to my cannibeta [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works), who was very concerned at the beginning but then happy-screaming by the end, which is exactly how I hope you'll feel, as well. <3

_If you prick us, do we not bleed?_

_If you tickle us, do we not laugh?_

_If you poison us, do we not die?_

_And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?_

 

 _\--_ The Merchant of Venice _by William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene I_

 

Pleasantries were made for times like these. Cool calculations masked as conversation are more than simple bread and butter; they're the entree, a heaping serving of oysters and acorns. Fitting, then, that Bedelia poured a glass of marsala for them both, an ambra. The mosto cotto used to sweeten it is the only sugar that shall be passed between them.

Will’s more refined now, but she’d noticed that during their conversations there toward the end of it all. Before, he never would have held the glass correctly, or taken the time to smell it, to enjoy the full bouquet. The way Will swirls the glass, holds the stem, it’s more like he’s reenacting a memory; he stares at her, but it isn’t her that he’s really staring at.

“How did it happen?” she asks, but they both know she doesn’t care.

“The Dragon had good aim, but inadequate follow-through,” he says, eyes flicking down to the inside of his wine glass, like he’s scrying for the answer. “And my aim was better.”

“I see. What was it like to strike the killing blow?”

“Against whom?”

Bedelia laughs, but only once. “You’re intelligent enough, Mr. Graham. I’m sure you can guess.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Bedelia can’t decide if Will wants to smile for her benefit or his own. “Beautiful.”

“I’m very happy to hear that.” Another lie, but that’s all quiet politeness is. “Did you get all of what you wanted from him first?” He clenches the stem, and she smirks, thinking, _Finally._ “Or did Hannibal deny you as you denied him?” When Will says nothing, she goes on. “Tell me. How did it feel to bleed out all over again?”

“Shut up,” he tells her very quietly.

“And now you’ll never know what it was I had. What he gave to me when you refused it.” Bedelia waits for Will to look back up at her--it’s interesting, how he’s reverted to not wanting to make eye contact. “How sad for you, to never know his touch. To have more than his knife in you.”

It’s crude, but viciously effective. Lies upon lies--it doesn’t matter that Hannibal never knew her that way, so long as Will thinks that he did.

“Shut. _Up.”_

Bedelia turns away from him, pretends to look out the bay window. “He’s an excellent dancer. Excellent at leading.” She glances over her shoulder as she sets her drink down on a nearby table. Bedelia knows she’s playing a dangerous game, but damn the consequences--she’s _curious._ “Excellent at...many things.”

The sound of breaking glass is her only warning before Will shoves her, one palm heavy on her back as she’s pushed against the wall. He waits for her to catch her breath, then flips her over with a pull on her shoulder, and her breath is driven from her again. Bedelia opens her mouth to speak, but Will presses a forearm against her chest; the beaded lace of her gown presses into her flesh, and the sleeve of his cashmere blend suit rubs against the skin bared by the deep v-neck of her dress.

Will holds the broken wine glass to her neck. The jagged edges prick at her skin. But Bedelia has made a career of benefiting from having her back against the wall, and she has no intention of stopping now.

“Why Will,” she says slyly, “whatever do you mean to do to me?”

He grits his teeth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Do you remember the last time we stood like this, so close to each other?” Bedelia blinks coquettishly. “There were bars between us then. Nothing separates us now.”

Will straightens his posture, stops making eye contact with the arm bracing her to the wall. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“Did you want me to?”

He licks his lips; the glass breaks her skin. “Yes.”

“Why?” she asks.

“I wanted what he had,” explains Will. “I wanted to ruin you for him.”

“You were jealous. Are you still?”

“Yes, but for a different reason.”

Bedelia cranes her neck forward, lets the glass push deeper, their lips nearly touching. “Are you going to ruin me now, Mr. Graham?”

Will’s eyes flicker down to her lips, and that’s all the warning she has before he’s crushing their mouths together. There’s nothing loving or affectionate about it--they both despise each other, would see the other dead in a heartbeat. Teeth are clashing and biting; tongues keep to themselves. This is the mating dance of wild, rabid beasts. They are nothing more than what Hannibal made them.

The glass clatters to the floor and Will’s hand replaces it, thumb in the jugular notch of her neck, fingers wrapped behind. He relaxes the fist on her chest; its fingers dip beneath the lace, searching, seeking, finding. Bedelia gasps into his mouth as he cups her breast.

He bites her bottom lip, pulls it with him, stretches it, then lets it snap back into place. “Is this what he did?” Will asks, and then he grips her breast tight enough to leave bruises from his fingertips.

“No,” replies Bedelia, “he was a gentleman,” though she has no idea how Hannibal would have handled her in bed. “You’re nothing more than a brute,” but she feels herself getting wet all the same. There’s never been anything gentle about Bedelia, only hard edges and molten sand and cracked mirrors.

“A gentle monster?” Will’s incredulous; she wonders if he should be, if he knows more than he’s letting on, but there’s no chance of Hannibal surviving Will’s reckoning. God knows she won’t.

Bedelia welcomes the onslaught.

She dips her leg out from where it sits between Will’s. Her nylons aid her calf in gliding up his suit pants. When Bedelia’s dress keeps her from raising it past his knee, she asks, “A little help?”

Will arches an eyebrow. “Help?” His nails are playing in the blood left by the broken glass; he worries the wound, but she likes the sting.

“I like this dress.”

So he brings his fingers to his lips, sucks the blood off them one by one, and then pushes her dress up her thigh. Will leaves it to bunch at her hip, finds the strap of her garters, and snaps it against her leg. Bedelia moans in spite of herself, and Will smiles. “It seems you like this, too.”

“What can I say?” she asks, and then gasps as he pulls her leg up to wrap around his waist. “There’s something to be said for playing with fire.”

“Put your arms around my neck,” and Bedelia does as Will removes his arm from across her. She thinks for a moment that she could overpower him now, so easily, take what she wants from him and leave him to burn. Will unzips his suit pants, and no, Bedelia has no interest in doing anything but be taken.

He doesn’t enter her then, but he does put his fingers at the join of her leg and pelvis and discovers, “You aren’t wearing anything.”

“Should I have?”

Will’s face contorts into a sneer. “You planned this.”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Hannibal never touched you,” Will accuses. “You teased him, twisted him.”

She whispers, “So did you.”

Will growls, and she feels his hand leave her skin. His knuckles brush against her clit as he lines himself up and pushes in without any further pretense. He laughs at her shocked groan, tinged more with pain than pleasure. Bedelia holds on tightly as Will lifts her other leg. She crosses her ankles at the small of his back, mildly surprised that she still has this range of flexibility. Will thrusts in deeper, and she clutches him between her legs. Her garters pull taut, but they don’t give way.

His hands find their way to her bare ass to hold her up as he fucks her against the wall there in front of the bay window, no one to see but the Atlantic and the moon. Will grunts and Bedelia gasps; his pace is slow and steady, not forceful like she wants, so Bedelia begins to goad him again.

“Hannibal took his time with me, too,” she tells him, lies to him. “He made the most beautiful sounds, Will.”

“You bitch,” he murmurs into her ear. His stubble scrapes and burns her face. “He wouldn’t touch you. Hannibal would _never_ touch you.”

“Why not?” asks Bedelia, then moans as he finds the right angle at last. “You are.”

“He doesn’t ingest poison. Vitriol. The vilest of serpents-- _oh fuck.”_ His voice breaks a little, and she watches gleefully as his eyes roll back when she squeezes his cock with her pelvic muscles. “Jesus, you’re tight.”

“Is it hot around you? Wet and deep and--” Bedelia moans as bends to her neck again, latching onto the wounds, sucking the blood right out of her.

To think that she lived so long with a cannibal, but it is the apprentice that eats her alive. It arouses her more than anything else has in this encounter, imagining Will actually biting down, swallowing, taking her in to be part of him forever, to corrupt him from the inside. Hannibal’s great vampiric mistake, corrected by the thrall he turned.

Bedelia comes, arching her back off the wall, pressing up against Will. He keeps fucking her through it, and the pleasure only mounts. Her head tilts as her muscles go lax in the afterglow, and Bedelia rests her head against Will’s face.

Will releases his teeth from her neck and pulls his head back; Bedelia’s head cracks back against the wall. His grin is grotesque and full of her own blood.

“You’ll never know what it is I have,” says Will, dooming her with her own words. “You’ll never know his touch, what he gives to me freely.” He picks up the pace, pounding her into the wall until she comes again and goes limp in his arms, and still he does not stop, relentless in the pursuit of his own pleasure. Bedelia’s eyes flutter open as he continues to punch little _ahs_ and _ohs_ from deep within her.

She lets her head fall onto his shoulder, hears Will whisper, “And temptress ours, he is no gentleman.”

And that’s when she sees him, red eyes gleaming in the shadows.

“Hello, Bedelia.”

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN HANNIBAL HELD A GRAND DINNER IN CELEBRATION OF HIS NOT-DEATH AND THEY ALL MOSTLY LIVED THE END
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


End file.
